


Home for Christmas

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Holidays, Humor, Romance, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 20:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13084317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: A prickle of unease tingled Mark’s spine as he listened to the voice on the phone. He knew what he’d heard, and yet he couldn’t have heard it.“I’m sorry,” he said politely. “With whom am I speaking?”The man on the other end of the line chuckled. “It’s your ghost of Christmas past, Darce.” Mark gripped the edge of the desk, not trusting the strength in his legs.“Who is this?”Again, the man chuckled. “Come on, Darce. Don’t you trust your own senses? I mean, what other evidence do you have?”“My God,” Mark whispered. “Cleaver.”





	Home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimor: you know the drill. Not my characters. I'm just borrowing them for my own amusement. 
> 
> ****POSSIBLE BRIDGET JONES'S BABY SPOILERS***  
> The Mark/Daniel/Bridget reunion we all wanted but never got. I realize that in the third film, we find out that Daniel is still alive and has been discovered in Australia, but I've conveniently left out that news clip at the end of the film to contrive a Christmas surprise. I also realize that in the film universe, Mark Darcy doesn't have a brother, and I tossed in a few other random book universe references as well. We don't have any evidence Daniel's mum would have been at Mark and Bridget's wedding, but I have my reasons; read to find out. 
> 
> finally, thanks to Marcie Dearest and Sfaith for the Christmas gift suggestions. Enjoy, typos and formatting errors are mine, and Happy Holidays!

> When pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure.- Jane Austen, Persuasion

A peaceful, midnight hush lay over the Darcy home; half in his sleep, Mark turned onto his side and reached to snuggle Bridget beneath his arm. Of the many small pleasures he’d discovered since their reunion, Mark promised himself he would never forget to savor the warm, sweet comfort of lying beside Bridget—of finding rest in her arms at the conclusion of a weary day and sleeping secure in the knowledge that her smile would greet him when he opened his eyes in the morning. Even now, months into their marriage, he hadn’t forgotten that morning after the christening: coming slowly, blissfully awake; smiling at the memory of the night he’d shared with Bridget and the thought of her curled beneath his arm; reaching automatically to pull her against him; then the sudden, disorienting jolt of realizing he was alone. That moment, Mark understood afterward, concisely and painfully encapsulated the glaring truth of what had been wrong with their relationship—that he’d always taken Bridget for granted, always expected that when he needed her, he could reach out to find her there without considering that she expected, even deserved the same from him in return. Now, he hardly ever reached for Bridget without remembering how easily he’d allowed her to slip through his grasp. 

Tonight, when he stretched out an arm to pull her closer and discovered the empty space beside him, he thought at first that Billy had woken and demanded her attention. When nearly ten minutes elapsed, and she didn’t return, Mark decided to check on the pair of them. Slipping from bed, he made his way down the hall and into Billy’s room to find him fast asleep and no sign of Bridget. Puzzled, but not alarmed, he stood for several moments, a smile playing at his lips as he gazed down at his little boy. Gently, not wanting to wake him, Mark leaned down and pressed a kiss to Billy’s forehead before leaving the room in search of Bridget.

He found her in the kitchen, her cheek resting on her hand, a cup of tea in front of her. Her gaze seemed unfocused and didn’t even flicker in his direction as he approached. 

“Bridget?” When she didn’t react, he spoke again, more firmly this time. “Bridget, sweetheart, is everything all right?” He was about to rest a hand on her shoulder when she glanced up and spotted him. 

“Oh, hi,” she whispered, her pensive expression relaxing into a smile. “I didn’t hear you come in.” 

“I surmised as much.” 

“What are you doing down here?” she asked. 

“I was just about to ask the same of you. I woke just now and noticed you’d gone; I thought at first the baby--” 

“Billy’s fine,” Bridget hastened to assure him. 

Mark nodded. “yes, I just looked in on him before coming to find you. Is everything all right?” he asked again. 

Bridget shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.” 

“Any particular reason?” Mark asked, taking the seat beside her at the kitchen island. 

“Not really.” 

Smiling, Mark cupped her cheek in one hand. “You’re a terrible liar, darling. How many times have I told you?” He began absently tracing the edge of his thumb along her skin, pausing when he felt the dampness of just-shed tears. “Bridget,” he said firmly, turning her face toward him, “what’s the matter?” 

“Nothing,” she protested, not meeting his eyes. 

“Bridget, you’ve been crying. What’s wrong?” 

“It really is nothing,” she insisted. “It was stupid. You’ll think I’m being ridiculous.” 

“I’m sure I won’t,” he murmured, still stroking her cheek with his fingertips. “Tell me what’s wrong, please.” He wondered suddenly, with a twinge of guilt, if his unusually hectic schedule this past week had excavated painful memories for Bridget—the late homecomings, the canceled dates, the broken promises that had left behind a latticework of cracks in their relationship—cracks that Mark worked every day to mend. Of course, with the approaching Christmas holiday, he was endeavoring to clear as much work from his desk as possible to maximize the time he could spend with his wife and son; even so, he had a history of being a poor judge in the department of balancing work and domestic responsibilities. With Bridget having the flexibility to work primarily from home, much of the day-to-day weight of looking after Billy fell on her shoulders, at least during the day, but Mark had worked hard to ensure that his own schedule accommodated the demands of parenting. Still, he knew he could—and should—find more ways to lessen the burden on Bridget. 

“Bridget,” he said, “I’m sorry I’ve been absent so much this week. I should have realized--” 

“No, Mark, it’s not that. Actually, it hasn’t been so bad. I mean, you’ve been busy this week, but I know you’re overcompensating now to have more time off at Christmas. I can’t begrudge you that.” 

“Well,” he insisted, “something’s troubling you. Whatever I’ve done, I’d like to fix it, but I’m not a mind-reader.” 

Bridget offered him a half-smile. “This might shock you, but it’s nothing you’ve done.” 

“Your mother, then?” Mark guessed, this time eliciting a laugh for his efforts. 

“Surprisingly not,” she said. 

Mark shrugged. “A shot in the dark,” he admitted, “but I thought I’d aim for a familiar target.” 

“Well, Mum’s yuletide nagging hasn’t kicked into high-gear yet. Give her another day or two.” 

“Next year, if you give me enough warning, perhaps I can arrange to leave the country.” 

“Not without me,” quipped Bridget. 

“You still haven’t answered my question though,” said Mark, his expression turning serious again. 

“It really was silly. I don’t know what triggered it. It was—well, it was just a dream I had. It unsettled me. I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I thought I’d just come down and make a cup of tea.” 

“A dream about what?” 

“About. . .” Bridget hesitated. 

“About?” Mark prompted. 

“Daniel,” she whispered. Instead of answering, Mark drew an arm around her and pulled her close, pressing her head against his shoulder. “Not a bad dream, really,” she continued, “and it wasn’t very clear, but he was, you know, alive.” Mark nodded silently. “I’m sorry,” said Bridget. “I know you have a hard time talking about Daniel.” Mark remained quiet, stroking Bridget’s head as his mind wandered back over the events of the last few years.

Following his and Bridget’s first engagement, Bridget had orchestrated a reconciliation between Mark and Daniel, “because I love you both, and you love each other, and I’m tired of watching two grown men fight like schoolboys,” she’d declared. Mark, well-versed though he was in conflict resolution, had been unable to construct a counter-argument that would stand up to Bridget’s obstinacy, and if he was honest with himself, the long-held grudge against Daniel had wearied him. He might have eventually forgiven his best friend for sleeping with his first wife and destroying his attempt to establish something that resembled a comfortable, or at least less lonely existence. The marriage could hardly have been called a love match, and Daniel, whatever his faults, hadn’t acted by design; he had simply acted, which was precisely his problem. It had been Daniel’s betrayal more than his wife’s that had wounded Mark; she hadn’t loved him, but Daniel had, or at least, Mark believed he had. 

As time had passed and Mark’s life sank deeper into the obscurity of lonely solitude, he’d found himself wondering if he might be able to find a way to reconcile with Daniel. He had his work; he had his colleagues, but he’d never found anyone whom he could truly trust the way he’d once trusted Daniel. Then, of course, Bridget had crossed his path and sent the sensible, straightforward trajectory of his life spinning out of control. His mild curiosity had grown into attraction before he could quell it, but then, as if fate were playing a cruelly amusing game with him, Daniel had arrived on the scene first. Mark’s jealousy had been tempered by a degree of righteous indignation on Bridget’s behalf at the way Daniel had jilted her, but equally troubling was the fact that however hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to disentangle his life from Daniel’s. Bridget had eventually convinced him to consider that these continued intersections were part of some greater design; it seemed too much of a coincidence, after all, that a woman should twice come between them. Reluctantly, Mark had agreed, and mending his relationship with Daniel had removed a very persistent, very painful thorn from his side. Then, of course, the thorn had struck again, or so Mark had thought. Despite how much he loved Bridget, the abysmal failure of his first marriage had ill-prepared him for the day-to-day rhythms of sharing his life with another person. This naturally made the learning curve in his relationship with Bridget understandable, at least at first, but as time had progressed, she’d grown increasingly frustrated with the late nights, the frequent travel, and the interminable phone calls that demanded his attention. She understood, even respected his work, but he’d learned the hard way that the space she occupied in his heart hadn’t been reflected in the time he made for her in his days. 

Inevitably, the stress fractures in their relationship came up against a pressure that neither of them could withstand. One evening, Mark had been detained by a lengthy meeting from which he couldn’t extract himself; that same evening Bridget had expected him to accompany her to the British Daytime Television Awards ceremony, at which she’d been nominated and had in fact won an award for best producer. He’d arrived after the event, just in time to see Bridget leaving—with Daniel Cleaver. Naturally, the sight had set Mark’s blood boiling with jealous, though not at all righteous indignation. Given his history with Daniel, his reaction had hardly been surprising, though for once, it had also been entirely unfounded. The simple, glaring reality was that Mark hadn’t been there for Bridget, and Daniel had. Bridget had boldly and angrily laid the truth before him later that night; Daniel, noticing she was alone and visibly upset, had asked her where Mark was, and on being told he hadn’t shown up, had taken Bridget for a drink to try to lift her spirits and then driven her home. For once in his life, he had comported himself like a gentleman and hadn’t laid a finger on Bridget; well, perhaps just one, but under the circumstances, Daniel could hardly have been expected not to offer a sympathy shag, and when Bridget had brushed off his advances, he hadn’t insisted. This, Mark had to admit to himself, was practically chivalrous in Daniel’s code of conduct. In the harsh, unflattering light of that reality, Mark had realized that, Daniel or no Daniel, he either couldn’t, or wasn’t prepared to give Bridget all of himself, and Bridget, who never held back, who loved fully and without reservation, deserved someone who could give her that depth of love in return. The engagement had been painfully but necessarily broken off, and Mark had once again attempted to fill the holes in his heart with the work that gave his life purpose. 

Through work, predictably, he’d met, and eventually married Camilla, less through a genuine desire for romantic companionship than as a numbing agent for the persistent ache of his loneliness. He’d convinced himself that if he couldn’t rid himself entirely of his past, he could at least sweep it under the rug to create the illusion of having done so. Then one morning, that rug had been unceremoniously yanked from beneath him when he’d glanced at the newspaper and found himself staring at a photograph of Daniel Cleaver that accompanied an article announcing his presumed death in a plane crash. The shock of tripping over his name while casually glancing through the morning paper had felt to Mark like stumbling on a landmine that, immediately upon detonating, flung the debris of his past mistakes in his face. The weight of his remorse lay heavy on his heart; adding to the pain of losing Bridget through his own neglect was the knowledge that he had, through his petty jealousy and inability to admit his own error, wronged the only man whose friendship had ever meant anything to him. Almost unswervingly obedient to the direction of his moral compass, Mark Darcy was a man unaccustomed to experiencing the prickle of a guilty conscience save in this one respect. In refusing to swallow his pride and reconcile his misunderstanding with Daniel, Mark had uncharacteristically allowed cowardice to override his better judgement, and with Daniel’s death came the realization that Mark could never wash away the bitter aftertaste of his guilt with an apology. On the surface, his kneejerk reaction that night five years previous hadn’t been entirely unreasonable given Daniel’s past behavior, but having learned the truth after the fact, he’d chosen to avert his eyes from his own guilt rather than face the truth of his mistake. 

Glancing at the article a second time, Mark had then noticed the details of the memorial service that had been printed along with the story. On the one hand, it seemed hypocritical to pay his respects to Daniel’s memory when his own behavior had been anything but respectful; on the other, it seemed an act of penance—one that might perhaps bring Mark some catharsis. In an unstoppable chain reaction, memories of Daniel had triggered memories of Bridget. Undoubtedly she would be attending the memorial—a fact that had deterred rather than enticed Mark to make an appearance himself. Had he wanted to see Bridget again? Truthfully, yes. Was placing himself in close proximity to her wise? About as wise as ripping stitches from a freshly sown wound. Seeing one another again at a memorial service for a man who had played a significant and complicated role in both their lives was awkward enough without the additional factor that Mark and Camilla had then been in the middle of negotiating the terms of their divorce. Given the turmoil in his life, he hadn’t felt emotionally equipped to face the tidal-wave of feeling that seeing Bridget again would undoubtedly unleash. 

To Mark’s surprise, it had been Camilla who’d encouraged him to attend Daniel’s memorial and even graciously offered to accompany him in a gesture of support for which Mark would always be eternally grateful to her. Despite the fact that their marriage hadn’t been a success, it had ended with no ill feeling on either side. They’d respected one another; liked one another; enjoyed one another’s companionship, but gradually, they’d admitted to themselves and to each other that despite occupying the same physical space, they’d lived largely apart. It had been, by both their admissions, a marriage of convenience—not so much a desire to be together as the desire not to be alone. Mark had, nonetheless, found solace in Camilla’s company that day, silently admitting to himself that her presence would provide him an additional layer of protection, for Bridget, if she noticed him at all, would be even more likely to avoid a direct confrontation. Fate, however, had had other plans. Had Mark not encountered Bridget after Daniel’s memorial, he supposed what had transpired at the Christening and all that followed might still have occurred; yet even now, reflecting on that meeting, he recalled the sensation he’d experienced as he and Bridget had parted ways after their brief exchange—unable to take his eyes off her as she’d walked away, as if the gravitational pull of his heart were guiding him back to the place where he felt grounded. In encouraging him to attend the memorial, Camilla had perhaps unwittingly laid the first stone in the path that led him back to Bridget, more importantly, it seemed, Daniel had, in his own way, brought them back together. 

* * *

The warm weight of Bridget’s head against his shoulder pulled Mark from his reverie; realizing she’d dropped off to sleep, he brushed his lips against her forehead to rouse her. 

“Sorry,” she murmured, yawning and blinking heavily. 

Mark slipped an arm around her and gently pulled her to her feet. “Come, let’s go back to bed.” Neither of them spoke as they returned upstairs; back in bed, Bridget snuggled against Mark’s side and rested her head on his chest. 

“Mark?” she whispered just as he was drifting off. 

“Hmm?” 

“Mark, have you ever had this feeling that Daniel’s spirit sort of brought us back together, in a weird way?” 

Mark smiled in the darkness. “Oddly, I had a similar thought just a few minutes ago.” 

“Really?” Bridget lifted her head. “You did?” 

“You sound surprised.” 

“Well, I am, a bit,” she confessed. “I mean, I’ve thought about it a lot, but you—you’re so. . . practical.” 

Mark laughed softly and kissed her cheek. “Sweetheart, you once managed to convince me that a terracotta oil-burner could take in milk. Anything is possible.” Bridget giggled. Resting his cheek against the top of her head, Mark closed his eyes and had just begun to slip into a doze when Bridget’s voice roused him a second time. 

“Mark?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I think he’d be happy for us—Daniel. I mean. He wanted us to be happy, and he always thought we were right for each other. I think he’d be happy things finally worked out for us.” 

“Or maybe he’s looking down wondering if a shag is out of the question,” Mark commented. 

Bridget’s eyes filled with tears, but she smiled. “You’re probably right,” she whispered. “It sounds crazy, but I still wonder sometimes,” she admitted, “if he could be alive somewhere.” Mark said nothing; clinging to such ideas was natural with any death that lacked closure, but Mark’s logical. Evidence-based mind demanded proof, without which he saw little point in entertaining hope. Hope, of course, was belief in the absence of proof, but Bridget had always understood that better than he had. “I know it’s silly,” said Bridget, “but sometimes I just get this feeling, like maybe he’s out there somewhere.” 

“If he is, he’s probably safer keeping his distance,” Mark observed, “because I suspect you’d kill him for not letting you know he’s all right.” 

“Probably,” she agreed. “I know it’s just because we never really had closure; being told that someone you love has been given up for dead isn’t the same thing as knowing. I always hated that expression—given up for dead. It’s like that person’s life—everything they were, everything they did is being tossed aside. I also know that’s just my own anger and grief getting the better of me, but I can’t help it. I just—I miss him so much, Mark.” 

Mark pulled her closer. “I know, my love. So do I.” Mark was generally skeptical of some of Bridget’s mystical notions, but by the end of the following day, he began to wonder if she could add predicting the future in dreams to her ability to bewitch essential oil-burners. 

* * *

Mark leaned back in his chair and glanced through the windows at the darkening sky. Sighing, he scrubbed a hand over his face and stretched; he’d promised Bridget he’d be home earlier this evening, and he needed to hurry if he intended to make good on that promise. As he stood and reached for his coat, his mobile began to ring. Assuming it would be Bridget, he answered the call without bothering to glance at the display. 

“I’m just leaving now, darling. I’ll be home soon.” 

“Well,” replied an eerily familiar voice, “that wasn’t quite the welcome I expected; in fact, it was far nicer.” A prickle of unease tingled Mark’s spine as he listened to the voice. He knew what he’d heard, and yet he couldn’t have heard it. 

“I’m sorry,” he said politely. “With whom am I speaking?” 

The man on the other end of the line chuckled. “It’s your ghost of Christmas past, Darce.” Mark gripped the edge of the desk, not trusting the strength in his legs. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths before he spoke. 

“Who is this?” he asked, carefully enunciating each word to disguise the tremor in his voice. 

Again, the man chuckled. “Come on, Darce. Don’t you trust your own senses? I mean, what other evidence do you have?” 

Deciding that the desk was no longer sufficient support, Mark dropped into his chair. “My God,” he whispered. “Cleaver.” 

“Ah, see? Knew we’d get there in the end.” 

‘I’m going mad,’ Mark thought. Lack of sleep had turned his recollection of Bridget’s dream into a hallucination of some sort. 

“I’m sorry,” he said aloud, “but I don’t understand. This can’t be—you can’t be—you were--” 

“Oh, about that being given up for dead business. Slight misunderstanding. It’s all sorted.” 

“’All sorted?’” Mark exclaimed. “you go off to Australia, crash a plane in the middle of god-knows-where, disappear, are given up for dead, and now you suddenly turn up two years later and claim it’s ‘all sorted’? I’m sorry, but what the fuck is going on here, Cleaver?” 

“It’s a long story,” said Daniel, “and I’d rather tell it in person. That’s the reason I’m calling.” A long pause followed this pronouncement. When Daniel again spoke, the teasing note had gone from his voice. “Look, Darce, I know what you must be thinking, but this isn’t a trick. I swear.” 

“How long have you been back in England?” asked Mark, hoping that keeping to the facts would help him regain some equilibrium in this conversation. 

“Just a few weeks,” replied Daniel. 

“where have you been all this time? Why hasn’t anyone heard from you?” 

“Kalgoorlie,” replied Daniel. “Long story, like I said. Look, I know this is a lot to process. I debated whether to even call you; I figured I’d be the last person in the world you’d want to hear from.” 

“What convinced you?” 

“My mum,” Daniel explained. “She’s filled me in on a lot since I got back. What’s this I hear about her being at your wedding? It sounds like you’ve got a story to tell yourself, Mr family man. How’s Bridge, by the way?” 

Immediately, Mark’s expression relaxed into a smile. “She’s great. I suppose your mother told you about the baby?” 

“She did. Well done, mate. So. . .” Daniel paused. “So, you’re happy?” 

“I am, yes.” 

“And Bridget?” 

“yes,” murmured Mark. 

“You’re taking good care of her?” 

“I’ve not heard any complaints so far.” 

“good. Well, don’t fuck it up this time, Darce.” 

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Mark grumbled, but he was grinning broadly now. “I still can’t believe I’m actually talking to you, and Bridget—she’ll be thrilled, once she’s got over the shock anyway.”

“right, about that,” said Daniel. “I don’t want her to know.” 

“What?” Mark frowned. “But surely--” 

“I don’t want her to know yet,” Daniel clarified. “I want to surprise her.” 

“Oh, I see. So ringing me up out of the blue and announcing that your death was a ‘slight misunderstanding’ lacked sufficient shock value, then.” 

“No, it’s just that I’d, well, like to do something really special, and I could probably use your help.” 

“She’s really missed you,” Mark said quietly. “She was devastated when she found out what happened. I don’t think she ever really got over it.” 

“Naturally. I expected nothing less.” 

At this, Mark laughed. “I’m glad to see your near-death experience hasn’t shaken your unwavering arrogance.” 

“some things never change, Darce.” 

“Apparently not.” 

“In any case, when do you think you can manage to sneak away for a drink?” 

Mark glanced at his watch; it was nearly 6.00. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. Bridget’s expecting me, but I could manage something tomorrow night.” 

“That sounds great. Well, I’d best not keep you from home and hearth.” 

"Yes, I should be going, but I’ll ring you sometime tomorrow to arrange everything. Oh, and Daniel?” Mark swallowed. “it was. . . good to talk to you.” 

When Daniel spoke, his voice sounded gruff. “Likewise. Until tomorrow, then." 

* * *

Shortly after work the following evening, Mark climbed the stairs to Daniels flat armed with a bottle of whiskey and a barrage of questions. He’d done his best to keep their conversation the night before a secret from Bridget, though she’d naturally noticed when he’d arrived home from work that he seemed distracted. He’d felt a twinge of guilt over lying to her—putting his mood down to a preoccupation with work—and to his relief, she’d recognized that he didn’t wish to discuss the matter. She’d been slightly less understanding when he’d told her he’d be late the following night. As it was Friday, he couldn’t blame her, and she’d relented without much protest, though she’d been noticeably cross with him this morning. Were it not for the fact that Mark knew she’d forgive him once she learned the truth, he might have felt the twinge of guilt more acutely. He wondered now, as he stood before the door, how he’d feel seeing Daniel again, but the first sight of his old friend’s familiar, roguish grin melted his apprehension. 

“there you are, Darce; about time. Excellent,” he added, eyeing the whiskey. “I’ll take that. Crikey, it’s good to see you.” 

Mark couldn’t help himself; he grinned back. “And you. Frankly, I half expected to find when I showed up that the whole thing was someone’s misguided idea of a joke.” 

Daniel chuckled. “No one would ever play a joke on you, Darce,” he said, pouring a drink for his friend and another for himself. “you have absolutely no sense of humor.” In the interest of reconciliation, Mark chose to let the comment pass. 

“I can’t stay long,” he said. “Bridget thinks I’m having dinner with a client.” 

Daniel cocked a brow. “Lying to the wife, are we? Ah well.” He shrugged. “It’s for a good cause, so I’ll let it slide this time, but don’t let me catch you at it again.” 

“She’s not thrilled, believe me,” said Mark. 

“And can you blame her, really?” replied Daniel. “I mean, look where all that ‘working late’ landed you a few years ago.” Mark nodded; Daniel’s comment had conveniently wedged him into the spot he’d hoped not to find himself in until the whiskey had taken effect. Sighing, he took a sip of his drink before speaking. 

“Daniel, listen, I’d best get this over with now; god knows I’ve been carrying it around for long enough.” He took another swallow of whiskey. “I owe you an apology for. . . well, for everything.” 

Daniel leaned back and took a sip of his own drink. “If by ‘everything’ you mean being a hopeless workaholic, standing up a woman you claimed to love for an awards ceremony, and falsely accusing me of taking advantage of the situation, then yes, Darce, I think an apology is long overdue.” 

“Rationally, I knew the truth, but admitting it meant also admitting that, well. . .” 

“That you were a stupid arse?” 

Mark winced. “In a word, yes. I blamed myself for everything, and you have no idea how many times I wanted to reach out to you to apologize, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” 

Daniel set down his drink and, to Mark’s surprise, rested a hand on his shoulder. “Mark, you may believe it or not, but I’d never have come between you and Bridget. I loved her—still do. Not the way you do, of course, but enough to know she deserved more than what I could’ve given her; enough to want to see her happy, and all anyone had to do was look at the way she looked at you to know you made her happy—when you were around, at least. She loved you with everything she had, Mark. Even a commitment-phobic, emotional fuckwit like me could see that. I wanted her to be happy, and I wanted you to be happy; you both deserved that.” He paused, reaching for his drink again. “Do you remember that night at Bridget’s birthday?” 

Mark grinned sheepishly. “You mean when you showed up at her flat and I initiated a rather inept exhibition of schoolboy dueling by punching you in the face? I think I vaguely recall the incident.” 

Daniel nodded. “After you and Bridget got engaged, when I watched her struggling to hide how much it hurt her when you walled yourself off, I understood how you felt. That night, when Bridget received that award, and you didn’t turn up, I could have throttled you. Granted, I wasn’t in a position to pass judgement considering the way I treated her, but watching Bridget hurt, seeing the disappointment in her eyes and knowing you were the reason for it, I wanted to beat you to a bloody pulp.” 

“quite rightly,” Mark murmured. “You should have. I certainly deserved it; the fact that you didn’t proves you’re a better man than I gave you credit for, Cleaver.” 

Daniel shrugged. “None of that seems to matter now though, does it? You both got there in the end.” 

Mark shook his head. “On the contrary, it matters more because of that; it’s made me appreciate what it feels like to find something I thought I’d lost and to live with the knowledge that I have to work every day of my life to keep it.” 

Daniel smiled. “I’m happy for you—for both of you. Really. Just don’t fuck it up this time,” he added, punching Mark on the arm. Reaching for the whiskey, he topped off each of their glasses before turning back to his best friend. “so, Bridget’s happy? Apart from currently wanting to tear your head off and eat it for the ‘working late’ stunt?” 

“She’ll get over it, I think,” said Mark, “once she learns the truth. For once, I’m not terribly fussed about it.” 

Daniel nodded. “so I, uh, suppose a shag would be out of the question?” 

For a moment, Mark struggled with the lump in his throat—years of unspoken feelings and lingering regrets forcing their way to the surface; then the lump dissolved in a long, warm laugh that he almost didn’t recognize as his own. “God, Cleaver, I’ve missed you,” he said, pulling Daniel into a hug. 

“Maybe it’s the alcohol talking,” said Daniel, “but I’ve missed you too, Darce.” 

Mark cast another glance at his watch. “right, well, I’m running short on time, so start talking, Cleaver. You’ve got a Hell of a lot of explaining to do.” The explanation, it transpired, didn’t take long, for the simple reason that Daniel remembered little of the accident that had led to his disappearance and presumed death. Had he not been discovered and cared for by an aboriginal tribe, he might not have lived to tell the tale. His road to physical and mental recovery had naturally been a long one, hence his failure to make contact. 

“And then, once I sort of came to myself, it wasn’t quite as simple as just turning up in London and announcing to all and sundry that I wasn’t in fact dead. I needed time to reorient myself; I spent some time with my mum, and that’s when I learned about everything between you and Bridget. That was decent of you, by the way, Darce, inviting her to the wedding. She--wel, she loves Bridget, and you; I think sometimes she wishes I'd turned out more like you,” he added with a grin. 

Mark smiled. “We were glad she could be a part of the day,” he said gently. “It was the next best thing to having you there with us.” 

Daniel chose to gather his composure with a fortifying swallow of whiskey. “Anyway,” he continued, “when Mum told me everything, I wondered if I should call; it sounded like you’d both moved on and mended the cracks in your relationship, and I was afraid my turning up out of the blue would have just fucked it all up again. I didn’t want that for either of you.” 

This time, Mark reached out and rested a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “I’m glad you changed your mind, Daniel; you have no idea, and Bridget—well, this is going to be an absolute Christmas miracle for her.” 

“yes, right, about that; I think I have a plan.” 

* * *

By the time Mark arrived home, it was nearly 10.00, and despite being aware of Bridget’s displeasure with his lateness, he wasn’t quite prepared for the blast of frigid air with which she greeted him, effectively dissipating the warmth he’d felt over reconciling with Daniel. Finding the house dark, Mark shrugged out of his coat and proceeded directly upstairs. After quickly looking in on Billy, he found Bridget curled up in the center of their bed, papers scattered around her as she typed frantically on her laptop. Absorbed in her work, she apparently hadn’t heard him mounting the stairs, and he stood in the doorway for several moments, gazing with affection at the frown of concentration that creased her brow and the way she chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. Only when she reached up to push back a strand of hair from her face did he announce his presence by moving to the side of the bed and leaning in to brush away the stray lock. 

At his touch, Bridget started and glanced up from her task. “Mark!” 

“Forgive me for startling you, love.” 

Bridget’s frown deepened as she met his gaze. “Well, I was a bit preoccupied, in case you didn’t notice; you’re not the only one with a busy and important job, you know.” 

“Bridget, sweetheart, don’t be like that.” 

Bridget slammed the laptop shut and turned to glare at him. “I could have really used your help tonight, Mark. I’ve got a huge meeting on Monday to prepare for, and do you have any idea how hard it is trying to get any work done when you’ve got a toddler climbing the walls and inventing increasingly ingenious ways to try to knock over the Christmas tree?” 

“Bridget--” 

“Don’t ‘Bridget’ me!” she snapped. “Mark, you promised; you promised this would stop. I know it’s the week before Christmas, but you’re falling back into old habits, and I’m not going to let you—not this time.” As he allowed the torrent of her frustration to rain down on him, Mark silently cursed himself for failing to concoct a more creative alibi; the fact that Bridget would likely forgive his deception tomorrow did nothing to help him in the present moment. Sighing, he sat down beside her on the bed. 

“You’re right, Bridget. I’m sorry.” 

“Well, for Christ’s sake, you could at least—wait, what?” Bridget blinked. 

“I said I’m sorry,” Mark repeated. 

“You’re sorry? Mark, are you serious? That’s it?” He nodded. “You’re not even going to give me one of your usual, hoity-toity explanations about how international crises don’t take a holiday and the world’s problems don’t solve themselves?” 

“No, I’m not. You’re right, and I’m sorry. I have no defense; I do, however, have a peace offering.” 

Bridget scowled. “We’re not having sex,” she grumbled, though without much conviction Mark thought. 

“I wasn’t going to suggest that,” he replied. “Although, if you’re willing to reconsider, I’d be happy to lay that offer on the table.” 

Reluctantly, her lips twitched. “Damn it. How can I stay mad at you?” 

“You really can’t.” 

Bridget slid closer and curled herself into his lap. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, resting her head against his chest. “I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that. It’s just been a long day. I know you warned me you’d be busy this week, but I’m busy too, and I feel like sometimes you forget that.” 

“I know. You’re right. I’ve been trying to be more conscious of that, but clearly I need to try harder.” Mark pressed his lips to her brow. “New year’s resolution number one. I’ll tell you what; I’ll keep Billy occupied tomorrow, and you can have the entire day to yourself.” 

“Really?” Bridget’s face relaxed into a smile. “I do have a bit more Christmas shopping to finish, and the process would go a lot more quickly if I were on my own.” 

“That’s settled then, and speaking of Christmas gifts, I’ve got an early one for you; I’d like to give it to you tomorrow.” 

“Is this the peace offering you mentioned?” Bridget asked. 

“Perhaps.” 

“Can’t I just have it now?” 

Mark hesitated, considering how best to answer. “It’s. . . not quite ready yet,” he said finally. 

“Hmm.” Bridget arched a brow; then went to work undoing the buttons of his shirt. “It looks like I’ll have to persuade you then.” 

Sighing contentedly, Mark leaned back on the bed and pulled her down beside him. “It won’t work,” he replied, capturing her hand an raising it to his lips, “but I’m happy to let you try.” 

* * *

The following day, as promised, while Bridget went off to finish her Christmas shopping (or start, more likely) Mark spent the morning and afternoon with Billy, which consisted almost entirely of peeling his son off the Christmas tree. After a brief romp in the snow, a vigorous game of hide-and-seek, and endeavoring to endow a menagerie of stuffed toys with flying powers by ineffectually tossing them into the air, Mark didn’t know which of them was more in need of an afternoon nap. Just as he got Billy settled down, he received a quick text from Bridget to the effect that she was on her way home. Crossing his fingers, Mark rang Daniel. 

“Bridget’s just texted; she’s on her way back from Christmas shopping.” 

“Excellent. If I pop round in about an hour, would that work?” 

“I suppose so, but. . .” Mark paused. “Daniel, are you sure about this? We want to surprise her, not give her a coronary.” 

“Darce, is there any way to tell her I’ve mysteriously come back from the dead that won’t shock her?” 

“I suppose not, but to spring it on her like this—perhaps we should have thought the plan through.” 

Daniel laughed. “With your attention to detail, we’d be on schedule to do this next Christmas.” 

“Very funny,” Mark grumbled. 

“come on, Darce. Nothing’s going to go wrong.” 

“Why don’t I trust you?” 

“Because you’re an eternal pessimist. Now, relax. I’ll see you both in a bit.” Mark ended the call just as Bridget stepped through the front door, rosy-cheeked and with arms full of packages. 

“You look like a Christmas card,” Mark observed, relieving her of her burden. 

“I feel like an ice sculpture,” she said, removing her coat and slipping into his arms for a hug. “Did you boys behave?” 

“Admirably,” said Mark. “Billy’s just gone down for a nap.” 

Bridget smiled. “You look like you could use one.” 

“I’d hoped it wasn’t that obvious.” 

Bridget rose on her toes to kiss him. “Come on; I need to get warm, and I’ve got a little surprise for you.” With Billy asleep upstairs and just under an hour until Daniel’s arrival, Mark allowed Bridget to curl up in his lap on the sofa, where she placed an envelope in his hands. 

“Now, don’t argue,” she said as he opened it and peered inside. “I’m giving this to you early so you have time to prepare, and I don’t want to hear a word of protest.” 

Mark frowned as he studied the contents of the envelope. “Bridget,” he said slowly, “I don’t understand. This is a flight itinerary, isn’t it?” She nodded, the light of her smile dancing in her eyes. “And it’s got—it says—but it can’t be. You’re not serious.” 

“I am. Peter’s coming for Christmas.”

“I can’t believe this. How on earth did you manage it?” 

“Your mum and I worked it out with him. Peter couldn’t make it to the wedding, he hasn’t met Billy, and I know you’ve been wanting to see him. I was going to wait to tell you, but you’ve been so busy, and you’ll have an even better excuse to keep away from work if he’s here and--” Enfolding her in his arms, Mark swallowed the remainder of her words with his kiss. “I guess you like it, then?” she asked when they finally drew apart. 

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” he replied. Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her again, more deeply this time, and when he drew back, her gaze was slightly unfocused. 

“You’re welcome,” she whispered. 

“It’s perfect, darling. I couldn’t have asked for a better surprise.” The ringing doorbell punctuated his remark with coincidentally perfect timing. “And speaking of surprises, it seems yours has found its way to our front door.” 

“Is it a special delivery?” asked Bridget. 

“In a manner of speaking,” said Mark. “But I need you to do one thing for me before I let you see it. I need you to wait upstairs for a few minutes. It won’t take long; I promise.”

Bridget frowned. “Mark, what are you up to?” 

“You’ll see. Just humor me. Go on; I’d like to do this before Billy wakes up.” 

Bridget arched a brow. “Why? Is it unsuitable for children?” 

Mark did his best to suppress a smile. “It might be. That remains to be seen. Now, go on. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come down.” Having seen Bridget safely upstairs, Mark opened the front door and ushered Daniel inside. 

“Be as quiet as you can,” he whispered, relieving Daniel of the armful of packages he held. “Bridget’s upstairs, and Billy’s napping.” 

“Christ, Darce,” Daniel grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Can we make this a bit more like a Christmas surprise and less like a secret military operation?” 

Mark sighed. “You know what Bridget is like; I’m endeavoring to soften the emotional impact here. Finding out you’re not in fact dead will be enough of a shock; I wouldn’t be surprised if she tries to kill you for not returning sooner.”

"Fair point. What’s your plan, then?”  


"Simple,” said Mark, gesturing toward the Christmas tree.  


“You can’t be serious!” Daniel exclaimed. “You want me to hide behind the bloody tree? Then I’m supposed to—what? Pop out like a fucking Jack-in-the-box and shout ‘Merry Christmas, Bridge! Sorry about that whole being dead mix-up.’”

“I was thinking of something a bit more. . . subtle. Look, Cleaver, this was your idea to begin with, and we’re somewhat limited in terms of concealment options, so 

work with me here.” Abandoning further protest, Daniel slipped behind the tree, and Mark advanced to the foot of the stairs. 

“Bridget,” he called softly. “Would you come downstairs, please?” When she appeared, brows drawn together in curiosity, Mark took her hand and led her to the tree. “I should warn you,” he said, still cradling her hand in his, “this isn’t going to be at all what you might have expected. You know I told you I was having dinner with a client last night; well--" 

“You were lying?” Bridget interrupted. He nodded. “I’m just going to let you continue on the assumption that you had a really, really, really good reason.”

“Yes, I think you’ll agree I did, but Bridget, before I tell you everything, you need to understand that--”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Darce,” came Daniel’s voice. “Quit leaving her in the dark; just tell her the truth. Aren’t you always supposed to tell the truth at Christmas? I’m sure I heard that somewhere.” As he stepped into view, Bridget drew in her breath, and her hand flew to her mouth.

“Daniel?” she breathed.

“In the flesh, Jones; I swear, I’m not a ghost. I’d offer you a life-affirming shag as proof, but I don’t think your husband would approve.” Bridget gave a nervous giggle, but the next moment, her legs gave way, and Mark only just managed to prevent her collapsing to the floor.

“So much for breaking it gently,” he commented as Daniel moved to Bridget’s other side, his grin replaced with a frown of concern. “I did warn you,” said Mark.

“You did. God, what an idiot. I’m sorry; I should have realized--”

“I’m okay,” came Bridget’s feeble interruption, startling both men.

“Bridget, trust me, you’re far from okay." 

“Mark, I’m fine,” she insisted, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. “I just. . . need to sit down.” Mark half guided, half carried her to the sofa and sat beside her, keeping one arm firmly around her. Bridget leaned gratefully against him, resting her head on his shoulder and gazing at Daniel in dazed disbelief. Daniel crossed the room and, crouching in front of her, took both her hands in his.

“Bridge?” he murmured. “Bridge, it’s me. I swear.”

“But how?” she whispered.

“Christmas miracle,” Daniel said simply.

“Daniel, I’m serious! What the fuck are you doing here? Where have you been? Do you have any idea what it’s been like? Worrying about you, wondering about you, finally accepting you were gone—and your mum! You bloody idiot, Daniel; did you even think about what she went through? Where the fuck have you been?” Daniel glanced at Mark, who merely shrugged.

“I did warn you, Cleaver.”

Daniel nodded, grinning sheepishly. “Well,” he said, turning back to Bridget, “it’s sort of a complicated story, and I’ll tell you as much as I can if you really want to know, but tell me, Jones, are you glad to see me?”

Bridget made a strangled noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You stupid arse, of course I am!” Without warning, she launched herself at Daniel who, in his crouching position, wasn’t prepared for the exuberant embrace. He managed to catch her, though the force of her leap knocked him backward. He wound his arms around her back as she dropped her head against his chest and wept.

“I m-m-missed you,” she hiccupped. “s-s-so much!”

“Sh, I know,” he murmured. “I missed you too.” Tightening his hold on her, he cradled her against him, rocking her gently until her sobs subsided. “Merry Christmas, Jones,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her ear. From a distance, Mark quietly observed the pair of them—his best friend and the woman he loved more than anything in the world—and felt supremely grateful that they were currently too absorbed in their reunion to take notice of him or the fact that his view of the scene was obscured by the tears blurring his vision. Eventually, however, Daniel lifted his head and, catching his friend’s eye, extricated himself from Bridget’s embrace and cleared his throat.

“Right, uh, Bridge, I should probably mention that I didn’t pull this off alone; there’s someone else you need to thank.”

Bridget lifted her head. “Really? But who--” Her voice trailed off when she caught sight of her husband. “You—you knew,” she whispered.

“I might have had a small hand in it, yes,” replied Mark. 

“So last night,” Bridget said slowly, “you were. . .”

“With Daniel, yes.”

“But how did you know?”

“He rang me on Thursday just as I was leaving work,” Mark explained, “and once he convinced me that it wasn’t someone’s idea of a practical joke, we arranged to meet last night.”

“So then,” said Bridget, the dawning light of realization flickering in her eyes, “does that mean—have you two forgiven each other?”

“Well,” said Daniel, “we still need to work on getting Darce a sense of humor transplant, but yeah. I’ve agreed to stop trying to shag you, and Darce here promises to lighten up a bit and treat you the way you deserve to be treated, or we’re going to have to dust off the dueling pistols. Right, Darce?”

Mark nodded, one corner of his mouth turning upward. “yes, I think those were the terms we agreed on.” Bridget shifted her gaze between the two of them grinning at each other; then flung herself into Mark’s arms. Having grown accustomed to her demonstrative expressions of delight, Mark caught her as she threw her arms around him and locked her mouth on his in a kiss that flooded him with warmth.

“Well,” said Daniel, “I think I feel cheated now.” At that moment, the baby monitor announced that Billy was awake and clearly displeased at being left out of whatever fun the adults were having.

“Mummyyy!”

“That sounds like my cue.” Bridget instinctively disengaged herself from Mark, but he gently held her back.

“I’ve got this,” he assured her. “You keep Daniel company. You’ve got quite a lot to catch up on.” 

Billy’s whimpers lowered in volume when he realized that someone was responding to his call, but wobbled dangerously toward raising another octave when he realized that the adult in question wasn’t his mother. This reaction hardly surprised Mark, since Bridget had been gone for most of the day, but desirous of diffusing the situation before her intervention proved necessary, he quickly scooped his son into a hug and kissed the top of his head.

“Hey, superman.”

Billy frowned up at his father. “I want Mummy,” he announced.

“Sh, I know. Mummy’s home now. We’ll go down and see her in a minute.” Thankfully, Billy submitted to the business of being changed and made generally presentable without further protest, and as Mark descended the stairs with the boy balanced on one hip, the mingled sound of Bridget’s and Daniel’s laughter flooded his heart with a warm glow. Catching sight of his mother, Billy wriggled in the crook of Mark’s arm, and after being gently set on his feet, he scurried into her open arms. Laughing, Bridget swept him into a hug and spun him around in a jubilant little dance.

“Woooe!” Billy exclaimed, his giggles joining hers. “I dizzy, Mummy!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, darling,” she murmured, catching his face in her hands and peppering him with kisses. “Did you have fun with Daddy today?”

“Yup!” said Billy.

“What did you do?”

“Waced in de snow!”

“Really?” Bridget arched a brow. “I’m sorry I missed that. Who won?”

“Me!” Billy announced proudly.

“Only because I lack the energy of a 2 yr-old,” Mark commented.

Bridget laughed. “Now I’m really sorry I missed that.”

“That makes two of us,” said Daniel, undisguised skepticism in his tone. “So you’re not as much of a curmudgeon as we thought then, Darce.”

Mark shrugged. “Let’s let that be our little secret.”

“Billy,” said Bridget, turning back to Daniel, “there’s someone very special I want you to meet. This is your Uncle Daniel. He’s, well. . .”

Mark came to stand beside her, slipping an arm around her waist. “He’s the best friend I ever had.”

Daniel swallowed and briefly averted his eyes. “Well,” he said finally, “that’s quite a testimonial, Darce.” He then directed his attention to Billy, who was regarding him with shy curiosity. “Well, Billster, you’re a very lucky little boy. Do you know why?”

“Why?” Billy asked timidly.

Daniel grinned. “Because you’ve got the prettiest mum in the world.”

“Oh, Daniel.” Bridget blushed.

“Your dad’s a pretty decent bloke too,” he added, “and I should probably tell you a little secret about him. He might be a stick in the mud sometimes, but if you grow up to be like him, there won’t be a better man than you." 

“Well,” said Mark, “that’s quite a testimonial, Cleaver.”

Observing the exchange, Bridget’s eyes filled with tears. “You two are unbelievable!”

In a gesture that was a miniature imitation of his father’s, Billy reached up and placed a tiny hand against his mother’s cheek. “Okay, Mummy?”

Bridget hugged him close and buried her face in his hair. “Yes, baby. I’m more than okay. I’m super.”

“oof, Mummy,” said Billy, his words muffled against her shoulder, “You squished me!”

“Oops.” Bridget giggled. “Sorry, sweetie.”

* * *

Insisting that Daniel stay for dinner, Bridget cobbled together a pasta dish, and food, wine, and laughter flowed in equally copious amounts as the three of them chatted late into the evening, filling in the gap that the previous two years had made in their lives. After Billy had been put to bed, Daniel stood and crossed the room to the packages he’d deposited beneath the tree earlier.

“I know I’m a bit more than you bargained for this year, but I did come bearing actual gifts.” With a grin, he dropped one package into Bridget’s lap and tossed the other to Mark. “You first, Bridge.” With no need to be told twice, Bridget tore into the wrapping and emitted a shriek of astonishment.

“Daniel!”

Glancing curiously at the item she held, Mark gave a resigned shrug. “Only you, Cleaver.”

“Do you have a problem with your wife in edible lingerie, Darce?”

“Well, it’s certainly reflective of your own unique taste in gift-giving,” Mark quipped. 

“And they’re chocolate,” Bridget pointed out.

“Not quite in the style of my favorite mummy pants,” said Daniel, “but I thought you’d appreciate the nostalgia behind the gesture. I’m just disappointed you’re not going to try them on for me. I was hoping to get my money’s worth.” Bridget punched him on the arm; then leaned over to give him a hug.

“I love you, Daniel." 

Daniel kissed the top of her head; then turned to Mark. “Okay, Darce, you’re up.” Tentatively, Mark peeled back the paper on his gift, and he didn’t need Bridget’s squeal of amusement to confirm that his apprehension had been well-placed.

“Daniel,” he said carefully, staring down at the copy of the Kama Sutra he held, “what precisely are you driving at here?”

“Well, you did promise me you’d treat Bridge right, so I was just, um, giving you a leg up, so to speak.”

“I didn’t—that wasn’t quite what I—oh, dear God.” Overcome, Mark lowered his head into his hands and began to laugh; Daniel joined in, and for several minutes, neither of them could stop. Eventually, Daniel cleared his throat and endeavored to regain his composure.

“I, uh, have another gift for you both.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” said Mark.

“No, this one’s different, and not sexually inappropriate,” Daniel assured him. “it’s, well, sort of a belated wedding present,” he explained, “since I missed it.” Mark and Bridget each took hold of one end of the package he offered, and together they peeled back the wrapping to reveal a large, silver-framed photograph.

Bridget gasped. “But Daniel, this is from the wedding. How could you—how did you--”

“My mum,” Daniel explained simply. Gazing down at the picture, Mark didn’t recognize it as one of hundreds that had been taken that day, but it captured an instant of such perfect tranquility that he feared even to breathe might have shattered its stillness. They stood together, apparently reveling in an intimate moment apart from their guests. Gazing out at the lake, Mark had one arm wound around Bridget’s waist, and she rested her head against his shoulder. The shot managed to capture the precise moment when he bent to kiss the top of her head.

“Your mum took this?” Bridget asked, blinking back tears as she stared at the picture.

“She couldn’t help it; the scene looked too perfect. She always meant to send it to you, but she must have set it aside and forgotten about it. Then when I came back, she told me everything and showed me that picture she took, and I thought, ‘well, maybe I missed the wedding, but I can still give them a gift.’”

“Oh, Daniel,” Bridget murmured, her voice choked with emotion, “this is perfect. Thank you so much.”

Mark slid an arm around Bridget and turned to face his friend. “We’ll treasure this, Daniel. Thank you.”

Daniel nodded. “Treasure each other,” he said gently. 

* * *

Much later, as he lay in bed, Mark marveled at the events that had unfolded during the past several days—events that seemed, mysteriously, to have been triggered by Bridget’s oddly prophetic dream about Daniel.

“I can’t believe it either,” Bridget whispered beside him.

Startled, he turned onto his side to face her. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

“I was just thinking about Daniel,” she said. “It’s so incredible. I mean, it’s not like I predicted it or anything, but it’s like I told you; I never really stopped wondering, and that’s the thing about closure; when you don’t have it, that door of possibility just stays open, even if it’s just a crack.”

Mark cupped her face in his hand. “That’s what I love about you, Bridget. No matter how bad things get, you can always find the smallest kernel of hope to cling to. You believe in possibilities, and you make me believe in them too.”

“Oh, Mark.” Bridget leaned in to hug him; then rested her head against his chest. “I think it’s really going to be a good Christmas,” she murmured. “Daniel’s home; Peter’s coming home; I feel like the spaces in our hearts—in our family—are all being filled this year.”

Mark bent and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Yes,” he agreed, “and that reminds me. I’ve done some thinking, Bridget. I know I should be around more often; it’s not impossible for me to work from home now and again. After the new year, I think we can balance the schedule a bit more in your favor.”

Bridget lifted her head. “Really?”

“Yes, because I seem to recall you reminding me very recently that I’m not the only one who’s busy and important. You love your work too; it makes you happy, and you’re brilliant at it. You’ve sacrificed a lot these last two years for Billy.”

“I don’t know if I’d consider it a sacrifice, really,” said Bridget. “I mean, it’s challenging sometimes, balancing everything, but I’ve loved having this time with Billy, and these first few years are really precious.”

“Precisely, and I don’t want to miss them.”

Bridget tilted her head up to peck him on the lips. “You’re full of surprise gifts this year, Mark Darcy,” she whispered.

“Well,” he said, pulling her closer, “you give me a gift every morning when I open my eyes and see you lying next to me." 

“Wow, seriously? What exactly did Daniel make you promise about treating me right this time around?”

“I believe his precise words were ‘Don’t fuck it up this time, Darce.’”

Bridget laughed. “And do you intend to take his advice?”

Again, Mark cupped her face in his hand; gently he rubbed the pad of his thumb across her lips before bending to kiss her. “Oh, yes I fucking do.”


End file.
